


Of Debts and Debtors

by sp_oops



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, canon-bending magic probably, drink every time there's an em dash, implied/actual bottom geralt, let geralt get dicked 2k20, this bitch loves a sigil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23253814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: Two bros, chillin' in a ta-vern, five feet apart ‘cause they—fuck, they really missed each other, not that Geralt will ever admit it—and anyway, in a minute here, they're gonna have to get closer than they ever thought possible.(Or, sometime after Episode 6, they meet again, Jaskier’s in trouble again, and Geralt saves them. Again.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 689





	Of Debts and Debtors

**Author's Note:**

> Longtime watcher/player, first-time caller.
> 
> Working title for this was “Alley of Plenty,” so that’s where I’m at.
> 
> <3

.

.

.

Geralt tries not to make a habit of this. Cities. Inns. He prefers the open air of the road, a cookfire, the peace of the forest after dark, because—because. . . well.

Sticking to the road means it’s easier to pretend everything's still normal. Preparing supper to the sound of a lute being tuned. Mindless chatter. The scratch of quill on parchment. Background noise that became such a fixed part of his life that he didn’t even notice it until it was gone. 

But it _is_ gone. 

And he’s covered in so much grime that even Roach snorts at him disparagingly. 

It’s time to find somewhere he can get a bath and a drink.

He veers toward the nearest city and locates its biggest inn. People are less likely to bother him at the larger establishments—he can blend into the crowd, keep his eyes down and his medallion in his shirt. 

He leaves Roach with a competent stable boy, then flips a coin to the doorman so they won’t toss him out on his arse on principle. They fill a bath for him straightaway, the serving girls scandalized at the accumulated filth.

At least it isn’t all blood and ichor; spring roads kick up more mud than a drowner fight. Plain dirt sloughs off him in the bucket set aside for the worst of it before he climbs into the bath and soaks the rest off.

Clean, juniper-scented, he heads to the common room for dinner. It’s growing dark outside, the lanterns lit inside while the tables fill in earnest. Geralt takes the corner-most table and ignores the rabble, ignores the lutist tuning their strings. The bath has worn him out. He’s only got the energy to focus on his ale and his dinner, a trencher of roast boar and wild potatoes.

Which probably explains why he didn’t hear the lutist actually start up their set.

Then take a break from their set.

Then meet him at the bar when he goes for another ale.

“ _Geralt!_ ”

It’s Jaskier. Lute swung haphazardly over his back, jewel-green doublet open over a cream-colored shirt, his buttons too undone for sense. He’s a saturated splash of color in the brassy-gold light of the bar, eager and delighted and bright-eyed.

Warmth flares in Geralt’s veins, which—what? “Jaskier.”

“Geralt, I _thought_ that was you. Been a minute, hasn’t it—”

“Mmh.” Whatever that feeling was, that not-unpleasant heated rush, Geralt shrugs it off. He wills the barkeep to fill his ale faster, and grunts at Jaskier, “Thought I told you to fuck off.”

“Ah, you have.” Jaskier is no less determined. “And I did. Let’s see—” He starts counting on his fingers. “—a milliner, a laundress, a minor duchess, a _major_ bakeress—lots of _esses_ , could stand a few more es _sers—_ ”

“Stop talking.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you walked into my tavern, and I’m not about to ignore an old friend like a rude—”

“Your tavern,” Geralt repeats. A new ale lands in his hand, head frothing over his knuckles. Damn it.

“Well, my gig. Same thing. And I’ve got another dozen songs to get through before I’m paid—”

“A dozen songs.” He sucks beer-foam off the back of his hand.

Jaskier tracks the movement. “I mean, yeah, a dozen, give or take, you know, the night is young—”

“Then I’ll find somewhere else to drink.”

“Ahh.” Now Jaskier’s blue eyes catch and hold his, pleading. “Don’t do that.”

It’s the least he’s said so far.

And there’s that warmth again. Guilt-shaped, yet suffused with relief and—no. _No_. Geralt says, “Give me one good reason.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, then closes it. His fingers drum the bar; he looks away, embarrassed. Firelight looks good on him, Geralt thinks, and immediately brushes the thought aside. Jaskier says, “I missed you, if you can believe it.”

Geralt can believe it. He’s starting to think that maybe he missed Jaskier, too, the same way he misses saddle sores once he’s spent a week on foot.

Not like he’ll tell the bard that. “If I hear one word of that song—”

“Not a note,” promises Jaskier. “Not a one. Cross my heart.” He’s beaming now, back to studying Geralt. “You look well. Healthy.” His open hand sketches a circle in the air, as if to capture Geralt’s entire being. “You don’t even smell like a sack of old onions this time—”

“Jaskier.” But Geralt can’t keep the exasperated fondness from his voice. And damn it—the way Jaskier grins before disappearing, he must’ve heard it, too.

Well—that’s fine. It is. Let the bard think what he will. Geralt’s been called far worse than “friend,” if that’s what Jaskier thinks of him.

Geralt finds a new seat. One where he can watch the performance.

Unlike any other time he’s seen Jaskier play, this crowd is hankering for it. They sing along, they whoop and whistle, applauding as they laugh. Jaskier banters with them during bridges, and snarks at their requests but plays them with good cheer.

Geralt can’t help but smile into his ale, at least at the irony. A djinn may have bound him to Yennefer, but at this point, Jaskier popping up out of nowhere is slightly more reliable.

And somehow, Jaskier seems pleased to see him. As though the things Geralt said at their parting weren’t just forgiven, but forgotten.

It can’t be that easy.

It never is, in his experience. But Jaskier continues to be an outlier in every other respect. Why not this one, too?

Geralt isn’t used to people showing him this sort of kindness. Doesn’t deserve it, that’s for damn sure.

Maybe—fuck. Maybe once Jaskier’s done with his set, Geralt will own up to every terrible thing he said. Buy Jaskier a drink. Apologize. He owes Jaskier at least that much.

More, in reality. Much more. Geralt’s got precious few friends.

But he can start with that. A drink, an apology, and then—who knows.

Jaskier may not play The Song, but he certainly doesn’t hold back casting knowing glances at Geralt. His broad grin, his radiant blue eyes—he winks at Geralt once, and heads in the crowd immediately turn to find the source of Jaskier’s interest. Geralt ignores them, drinking deeply.

Jaskier’s just winding down with a final song when the debt collectors arrive.

Four of them, burly bastards in boiled leather, clubs in their hands, dourness on their faces—dourer, when the bar quiets. Jaskier, noticing them, breaks a string.

One of them points at Jaskier with a club. “There’s the slop-shite what owes us a tidy fortune,” he says. “Told you not to come play here again ‘less you had our coin. Do you?”

“ _Ah_ ,” says Jaskier, the broken string drooping, “about that—”

The man moves into the crowd, turning over an empty chair on his way to Jaskier. “Think you can still play with broken fingers?”

“Geralt,” says Jaskier, near tripping over a bench in his haste to get to the witcher, “Geralt Geralt _Geralt_ —”

Geralt resists the urge to rub his temples.

Slowly, tankard in hand, he gets to his feet. Jaskier swings in behind him. “Stand aside, White Wolf,” snaps the club man, still oncoming.

Geralt lifts a brow. “You’ve heard of me.”

“Yeah, I heard of you, and I ain’t afraid to bowl you over on the way to turning this lummox upside-down and shaking him ’til his pockets empty and his brain—”

Geralt smashes the tankard into the man’s face, dropping him like a sack of silver.

The other three stop cold.

“Hah!” croaks Jaskier, his register somewhere up in the rafters.

Geralt’s wading around the table, toward the other three. “Leave,” he suggests.

“Aw, fuck you,” one snaps, staying put, club braced. “He owes us. We’ve got every right to collect—”

“By breaking his fingers?” Geralt’s still got his tankard in his fist; a smear of blood darkens one side. “Taking away his ability to pay it back in the first place?”

The man lifts his club and rushes in.

Geralt steps aside, grabs the man by the collar, and hauls him out into the street.

The other debt collectors follow, shouting up a ruckus as they go. Bar patrons follow and passers-by pause to watch.

As the debt collectors rush him, Geralt drops the tankard. One of them sinks a fist into his ribs; another grabs a handful of hair and yanks, loosening the tie that keeps it neatly back. Geralt ignores the blows. His fist falls like a hammer, again and again and again. The men hit the muddy cobbles with dull thuds, moaning in pain.

“ _I’m fetching the constabulary!_ ” One of the debt collectors shouts it through a mouthful of blood, spraying like a cat. “We’ll get that coin—”

Geralt’s already striding back inside, Jaskier at his heels like an eager collie. “Geralt, really, you didn’t have to brutalize them—”

“They were brutes.” He snaps a gold piece onto the bar, attempts a tight-lipped, apologetic grimace to the barkeep. His knuckles throb; his ribs throb. The bar patrons have scattered—some into the street to see, some to their rooms. “For the mess,” he tells the barkeep.

“Constabulary’ll be on its way,” says the man, pale and peaky, gold already hidden in his fist. “Oughta get gone, if you don’t want caught.”

Geralt breathes out long, slow, and frustrated. Another gold piece hits the bar. “I’ll be back after they’ve gone,” he says. “Don’t give up my room. And. If you could.” Jaw clenched, he looks back at Jaskier and holds out a hand. Gestures a little more forcefully. “Jaskier.”

“What, this?” Jaskier’s hands rise to his woven lute strap. “Absolutely not—”

“If you don’t want them dashing it to pieces on the ground as soon as they catch you,” starts Geralt, but Jaskier’s already shaking his head and lifting the lute free.

“Fine— _fine._ Won’t risk that again. Be gentle,” he adds to the barkeep.

Geralt takes the lute, sets it on the bar with a grunt. “And if you could keep this safe ’til we’re back,” he tells the barkeep, “I’d appreciate it.”

The barkeep looks at the gold in his hand, then up at Geralt. “How much would you appreciate it, you think?”

This day just keeps getting better. “Fine,” Geralt growls, “if you’d prefer to rob me, there’s another gold piece in it for you if he gets this back unharmed.”

The barkeep nods. “Aye, then. Go on.”

Jaskier’s hands are planted firmly on his hips. “And _where_ exactly are we—oi, hello—”

Geralt takes Jaskier by the arm and hauls him across the tavern, into the kitchen, and out a side door into an alley.

“Really,” protests Jaskier, not even trying to get free, “truly unnecessary—”

“It’s necessary if you don’t want me killing anyone in your name.” Geralt steers them down the dark alley, lit sporadically from glowing windows beside and above.

Fuck.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, ale after ale and a few creature comforts. Five minutes ago, Geralt was entertaining thoughts of buying Jaskier a drink, sitting the man down, and apologizing. Maybe—maybe catching up, a little. Trying to identify the lightness in his heart.

He thought about it, anyway.

Now they can hear the constabulary shouting; it’ll be mere moments before they think to check the alley, and…

Geralt pauses. He can hear them, men on horseback—some coming up the cobbled lane that’ll cross the alley exit.

They’re surrounded.

And it’s a narrow alley, little more than an arm’s length and a half. There isn’t anywhere to hide.

“Uh,” says Jaskier, “Geralt, I don’t think—”

“They’re here.” Damn it, Geralt really doesn’t want to have to kill anyone. He won’t have people hunting Jaskier. At least, nobody other than a few witless debt collectors. Debt is one thing; constable blood on your hands is another. “They’ve got us surrounded.”

“Don’t you have magic or potions or some kind of fiddly, y’know—” Jaskier waggles his fingers. “—hand thing, hand magic, that can turn them away?”

Axii could convince approaching brutes they saw nothing, but in the time it took for the spell to reach them, they could call for reinforcements. Short of that—well, there is one thing. Geralt’s got a complicated little sigil that could camouflage them, but it’s got such a tight radius, only big enough for just one person, and if anyone actually comes down the narrow alley, they’d still _feel_ an invisible witcher and bard if they ran headlong into them.

But it’s their only chance. Maybe seeing the alley empty is all it will take to keep them from coming down it.

“Fuck,” Geralt says bitterly, releasing Jaskier. He turns to the wall beside them, twists his fingers against mortar and stone, and mutters a word that tastes like an afternoon thunderstorm on a country road. A flame-bright sigil glows and then sinks into the wall.

“Whoa,” says Jaskier, staring not at the sigil but at Geralt, “that’s—oi, _Geralt_ —”

Geralt takes him by a handful of doublet and pushes him back against the wall, right over the sigil. Then Geralt crowds in close as he can. Heat thrums in his veins, anger and fear and something else, something sparking and crackling and fluttery and, like earlier, not completely disagreeable.

Fuck’s sake. _Focus_. The voices are coming closer; any moment the constables will look into the alley.

“Don’t move,” Geralt says, “and they won’t see us.”

“Geralt,” says Jaskier, close, _very_ close, “I—”

Geralt clamps a callused hand over Jaskier’s mouth. “ _Quiet_ ,” he growls.

Back at the tavern entrance, raised voices tumble over one another. “No sir,” Geralt can hear the barkeep say, “didn’t see which way he went. You know them witchers—vanish into thin air—”

“He can’t have gotten far,” declares a voice with a brisk confidence that only comes from being obeyed your whole life. “Spread out and search for him.”

“’Erolt,” mutters Jaskier, muffled.

“Shut up,” Geralt hisses. He shoves his own body in closer until they’re jammed chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His heart’s doing that skipping thing again, for the gods’ sakes—“Not letting you dig yourself a deeper grave tonight. Understand?”

Jaskier’s eyes are solemn, serious—dark, even—behind Geralt’s hand. He nods.

Geralt ducks his head as footsteps inch closer to the alley. His loose hair falls around his face. His nose is close to Jaskier’s shoulder, and as he breathes in (he is _not_ panting), he catches the warm sandalwood scent of the oil Jaskier buffs into his lute, and whiffs of those damnable jasmine bath salts the bard likes so much.

He’d forgotten. It puts him in mind of that frantic ride to Rinde, Jaskier’s warmth heavy against his back, shot through with blood and fear—yet still, under all of it, jasmine and sandalwood.

Now, he tries not to breathe it in on purpose. He can nearly hear Jaskier’s frantic pulse, but to his credit, Jaskier stays silent and still, barely breathing against the clamp of Geralt’s hand. Geralt should drop it. He should drop it and stop thinking about the shape of Jaskier’s mouth beneath his palm, how soft it is—

Fuck. He drops his hand and balances Axii on the tips of his fingers instead. He’s trying to stay quiet, but the words just—just snap out of him before he realizes it: “Are you cursed?”

The whole length of Jaskier’s body jolts against his, but he keeps his voice low. “Am I— _what?_ ”

“Are you some kind of abomination, hiding in human form?”

“Geralt, that’s preposterous—”

“Trouble follows you like a second shadow.” Geralt’s keeping an ear to the constabulary; they’re not quite at the alley. “Wherever you go, you bring it down on us—”

“ _You_ follow me,” says Jaskier. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Geralt lifts his head.

Jaskier’s eyes gleam as blue as a winter morning. He’s smiling, soft and—fine, fuck it. _Lovely_. Geralt can’t look away. Jaskier’s lower lip is plush and open, and Geralt—maybe because it’s been so damn long, but—he can just imagine the initial feather-light tug of it against the length of his—

Constabularies swarm the alley.

Geralt ducks his head, mind swarming with creative curses. “Not. A. _Sound_ ,” he whispers.

“Just fuckin’ saw them,” one of the constabularies barks, pawing a barrel over, by the sound of it. It rolls and thuds against the wall of the inn. “Can’t have got far.”

“They’re probably long gone. Cap’n’s just got make sure they search—”

In the cool evening air, the heat of Jaskier’s body feels like a welcome hearth, the whole solid column of it aligned with Geralt’s. Geralt can imagine—well, doesn’t _need_ to imagine, he’s got Jaskier right here—what grinding forward just a little more would mean. Their hips are barely touching, but—ah, fuck. His cock is slowly but surely filling in his breeches. He needs to move away, angle himself back. _Now_ , before Jaskier feels it.

But the constables are too close. Any shift now, any move, any noise, and they risk giving themselves away.

“Fuckin’ hell,” says one of the constables, stopped an arm’s length from Geralt and Jaskier. “I don’t see shite.”

Jaskier’s breathing shakily against Geralt’s ear. In and out. It’s doing things to Geralt, putting him in mind of bedrolls and firelight and Jaskier’s hands white-knuckled on Geralt’s hips. Gods, it’s been a long time since someone’s fucked him. Too long.

“Yeah,” grumbles the other constable. “Let’s split up—you go on to the other side of the block.” He waves down the alley, past Geralt and Jaskier. “I’ll check this side. Meet you at Banker’s Square.”

“Right.” The constable steps toward them.

Jaskier flinches, his hands locking onto Geralt’s shirt. As the constable goes by, he hauls Geralt closer against him.

Geralt nearly protests, but then his cock nudges up against something just as solid, just as straining, in a burst of heated friction so delicious, he barely keeps from gasping.

Jaskier’s whole body shudders, knuckles boring into Geralt’s chest. His eyes close; his head tips back, baring his smooth throat. Geralt wants to mouth up against it; he’s certainly close enough to, but still, the constables—

The constables are going their separate ways.

Heat’s soaking through Jaskier’s hands, now flattening in Geralt’s shirt. The same warmth is pooling in the bottom of Geralt’s stomach, spreading out to his limbs. The unbearable pleasure of their cocks riding together—he can’t—

Geralt lifts his head to look down at Jaskier—well, tries. They’re almost of a height, here, and all he sees is blue eyes, dark, and the soft part of Jaskier’s lips. And now Geralt’s just _hovering_ there, his mouth inches from Jaskier’s own, and he’s thinking about how warm they’d feel against him, that talented tongue. The barest, briefest tease of a smile surfaces on Jaskier’s face.

“Took us long enough, didn’t it,” he murmurs.

“Fuck,” rasps Geralt, bewildered.

“Would you like to,” pants Jaskier, “because gods, I’ve been ready to go since you dragged me out here, and I don’t know if—”

Geralt glances left and right.

They're alone. It’s just them. Just them, and a dark alley, and the sporadic glow of tavern lights all the way down.

Fuck it.

Axii vanishes from Geralt’s fingertips and he starts unlacing Jaskier’s breeches. Fuck, when did his hands get so damn unsteady? Jaskier wastes no time, fumbling with Geralt’s own laces, breathing shakily as he slips his fingers past fabric and _in_ —

Pleasure encircles him, sends the heat pooled in his belly rocketing out through his veins. He groans through his teeth as Jaskier’s hot, strong grip immediately works down and back up, down and back up, and fuck, Geralt’s hips roll into it, eager for the touch. “Yeah,” Jaskier murmurs, “that work for you?”

In reply, Geralt finally yanks Jaskier’s breeches open, sifts through his smallclothes and gets his own hand around Jaskier. Who breathes, “Fuck, ah, fuck,” and rolls his cock through Geralt’s grip. “Calluses,” he pants, “you’ve got such—that’s— _oh_.” His brow thunks against Geralt’s.

“Too much?”

“No, gods no, don’t you dare stop.”

Geralt doesn’t. Instead he meets Jaskier’s helpless thrust up with a tight stroke down, and Jaskier tips his head back against the wall again, eyes closed, throat working. “Fuck,” he gasps, brows at such a desperate angle. “Fuck.”

“You sound surprised,” Geralt says, unable to keep the smugness from the observation.

“I am.” Jaskier knots his free hand back in Geralt’s shirt, tagging a blossoming bruise. He shivers at Geralt’s grunt of pain-pleasure. “Was so certain you were—oh, gods— _far_ less accomplished—”

“You’ve thought about this.” Geralt’s voice scrapes the bottom of his range.

Jaskier’s hips roll to meet Geralt’s touch on every downstroke. “Yes.”

“You’ve thought about me.”

“Yes. Wondered— _oh._ ”

“Wondered what.”

Jaskier opens his eyes, lifts his head—gods, those lovely eyes, dark and lost to pleasure, and still, Geralt can see the delight. The near challenge in them. “What you like,” says Jaskier. “How you sound. What could possibly get you to just—total incoherency.”

Geralt feels a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth. “You want to find out?”

Jaskier’s cheeks are already pink, but need stains them ruddy. “Please,” he manages.

Geralt keeps his hand working as he leans in. “You want incoherency,” he murmurs, letting his stubble scrape Jaskier’s cheek, “you’d need to put me on my knees and fuck me.”

Jaskier near cries out, his body jolting, his brows slanting.

Geralt lets his lips catch along Jaskier’s smooth jaw, chasing the blush. “You’re close.”

“Gods yes, can you blame—” His hips still chase Geralt’s touch, a perfect rhythm. “ _Nnnh._ ”

“Show me,” says Geralt, drinking in the sight of him coming so completely undone, his own hips grinding half-consciously against the press and roll of their bodies. “I want to see.”

“Fuck, Ger _—ahh_ —”

Jaskier comes with a wrenching moan, sweet and agonized, his hips rolling helplessly into Geralt’s fist, his clenched hand about to tear Geralt’s shirt open. He presses his forehead to Geralt’s, his whole body rising and falling in shuddery gasps of pleasure until he almost pitches forward against Geralt.

Who can’t help but smile, tipping his nose into Jaskier’s soft hair—more of that sandalwood and jasmine scent meets him, and something warm, something that makes Geralt think of sunshine and cool sheets and mornings with nowhere to be.

Jaskier finally lifts his head. His panting has slowed. His eyes were glazed over with sated pleasure, but now his stare sharpens, his grin pulling up all wicked as he searches Geralt’s eyes. “Let me,” he says.

His right hand starts up again, hot and tight around Geralt, the pleasure of it punching the breath from his lungs.

Geralt lets it happen, for once trusting his own pleasure to someone else. He doesn’t protest when Jaskier quirks a brow and sends a hand down the back of Geralt’s breeches, palming him along the way. Jaskier keeps going, and further, until the calloused pads of his fingers smooth against his hole. Geralt bucks in surprise, right into Jaskier’s grip on his cock. Falling back again just presses him into Jaskier’s fingers. “Oh gods,” breathes Jaskier, “look at you.”

“Been awhile,” Geralt mutters.

“I can stop—”

“Don’t.” Geralt bites his own lower lip, trying to hold back the embarrassing noises threatening to spill out of his throat. “You could. . .”

Jaskier pauses his up-and-down strokes on Geralt’s cock, his thumb smoothing just beneath the crown at a spot that makes Geralt keen. “I could what.”

“Inside.” The word spills from Geralt’s lips before he can think to hold it back. He adds, “Please.”

Jaskier frees his hand, spits into it with surprising finesse, and returns to the inside of Geralt’s breeches.

When Jaskier’s wet fingertips smooth against him, Geralt curses again through a clenched jaw, and then Jaskier’s starting to sink a finger inside, slow pulsing thrusts, barely any, then barely a little more.

Geralt bites down on a moan, hips stuttering between fist and fingers. And Jaskier—Geralt’s never seen him like this, heavy-lidded and dark-eyed, his mouth soft and parted. Utterly sure of himself. “Really has been awhile,” Jaskier murmurs, husky, “since someone fucked you properly.”

Geralt actually fucking whimpers, rocking himself back onto Jaskier’s fingers—oh, hell, fingers plural—and forward into that teasing grip.

“Yeah,” Jaskier whispers, lips catching against Geralt’s jaw. “I know. Just enjoy it, all right. Take it. It’s yours.”

Fuck, and that—something about it turns Geralt’s insides to liquid pleasure, his cock slick in Jaskier’s fist.

“Though for someone in a dry spell, you’ve certainly got control over yourself, haven’t you. I know it’s not my technique.”

Geralt didn’t even realize he was holding back, but now that Jaskier says it, fuck, he really is. He’s enjoying it, riding the wave of heat and pressure and pleasure, but he’s holding back. His muscles are still clenched tight, his knees locked; he can’t—he can’t just let himself go, he wants—he needs to know that it’s. . .

He opens his eyes, locks onto Jaskier’s blue ones and drinks in the sight. “Tell me,” Geralt rasps.

Jaskier’s eyes darken. “Give you permission, then.”

Geralt half-expects to be mocked. For Jaskier to throw the triumph of control in his face. But there’s none of that. Just quiet, raw understanding, and the coolness of confident command.

Geralt’s starting to understand how Jaskier can land as many partners as he does.

“Come for me, then,” Jaskier says, a quiet suggestion. His fingers fuck in deeper, his hand pulls tighter; bright bolts of pleasure open up inside Geralt. “It’s all right.” He presses them temple to temple, adds in Geralt's ear, “Let me see you incoherent.”

Geralt closes his eyes and lets himself fall into the heat of it.

He comes. Gods, fuck, does he come—it punches the breath out of him, buckles his knees, but Jaskier holds him steady, pulls him off, works him through it with a slickening grip and his fingers dragging stroke after stroke of delirious arousal inside him, following Geralt’s helpless thrusts so the pleasure is inescapable from every angle.

When it’s over, Geralt has to brace his hands against the wall behind Jaskier, head bowed, hair in his face as he tries to catch his breath. Jaskier’s grip loosens, slowly withdrawing from Geralt’s breeches—not without an indulgent squeeze of Geralt’s arse.

Geralt grunts a half-laugh. “If I knew it would get you so quiet,” he says, against Jaskier’s ear, “I would’ve done this long ago.”

“Ha, ha,” says Jaskier. “You’re hilarious. No one ever mentions it. Pity.”

Sudden fear flits through Geralt’s chest. He takes half a step back, uses his clean hand to seize Jaskier’s shirt. “If you sing about this—”

But Jaskier just grins. “I don’t sing about the things I keep for myself.”

That’s—oh. “And you’re keeping this?”

“I absolutely am.”

Face heating, Geralt turns away. Starts doing up his laces. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh, _me_ —at least I bathe more than once a fortnight, more than you can say—why do you bother with me, then.”

Geralt wants to glare at him. But that delicious thrum is still simmering down in his veins, and he just—it’s so much more work to pretend he doesn’t give a damn. “You look at me,” he says carefully, laces done, “and you don’t see a monster.”

“I see a man who believes monsters aren’t always the blood-drinking kind.”

Geralt has to tamp down on the instinct to bat that away. To push aside the admiration in Jaskier’s voice.

“This is the point,” Jaskier adds, just starting on his own breeches, “where you say, ‘ _Ooo, Jaskier, then why do you bother with me?’_ And I’d answer: do you have _any_ idea how handsome you are, I mean, by the gods, it’s unbearable. Unfair, actually, that one person should—”

“That’s enough,” Geralt mutters.

“Your superlative face _is_ part of it,” says Jaskier, and he’s quiet again, considering. The glow from the alley windows puts a light in his eyes. “But the truth is—you care a lot more than you let on. Even furious with me, you still saved my life. You’ve done it again and again. Tonight, too.”

Geralt bites down on his lower lip. It’s time to say it. “Jaskier,” he starts, “I—I said some things, the last time we—” He lets out a short breath, frustrated at his own hesitation. “I owe you an apology,” he says.

“It’s forgotten.”

Geralt stares at him, uncertain.

But Jaskier just shrugs. “I could get jumped by a rogue djinn or clubbed to death by a bunch of debt collectors at any moment. Life’s too short to hold grudges.” He’s studying Geralt, smiling. “Do you think they’re gone? Should we go back inside?”

By now, Geralt’s smiling back. He must like a dolt. For once, he doesn’t care. “You want to go back?”

“Don’t get paid unless I finish my set.”

“You pick up that lute in there again, they’ll call the constabulary right back.” Geralt steps in close again.

Jaskier studies him, delighted. “Got a better idea?”

Geralt’s considering kissing that soft mouth. “I’ve got a room. If you, ah.”

“That _is_ a better idea. Right, let’s do that. And—” For the first time, Jaskier falters. He looks on down the alley. “—and tomorrow?”

If Jaskier’s asking what Geralt _thinks_ he’s asking. . . “I was only staying one night,” says Geralt. “But after this—I thought I might head west.” It’s not entirely true; he didn’t have that particular destination in mind until just now. But he remembers the conversation _before_ their last conversation, too, and. . . he studies Jaskier hopefully. “The coast might be nice this time of year.”

Jaskier turns back to Geralt, his uncertainty melting into radiant joy. “Ohhh, you _tosser,_ ” he says, shaking his head, beaming, “you remember that, do you.”

Geralt thinks he could get used to feeling like this. “I have my moments.”

“Sometimes more than one.” Jaskier pushes off from the wall. “Come on, Geralt. You still owe the barman a gold piece if he’s kept my lute safe.”

Geralt _hrrmh_ s. This is yet another reason why he avoids cities. They always end up costing too much.

But perhaps this time—just this _one time_ —it’s worth it.

This time, he’s gotten back everything he’s missed. And so much more than he ever thought he’d deserve.

He makes sure his breeches and shirt are decent. Then, still holding back a smile, he follows Jaskier out of the alley.

**Author's Note:**

> yell with me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).


End file.
